Yay, the sweet and great Orpheus helped me out, and my blog is back to normal.
I don't have time to say much, this next week is going to be brutal.
But we used these two words in my sciency lecture today, and they've been kinda rolling off my tongue the whole day:
deliquescence and
efflorescence
Aren't they lovely?
Deliquesce, to melt away until you dissapear, effloresce, to unfold and bloom to your highest point. Beautiful. Sexy. So fun to say too. I don't know what to say with them right now. But here you go, Orpheus, I'll dedicate the two to you. :))
Now back to work.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
my precious
Boohoohoo. Makes the nasty characters goes away, Learn hates them she does, boohoohohoo.
No, seriously, I've tried everything. I have this line in my template:
meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1
So I changed the character set encoding to iso-88589-1 from my settings as Blogger help suggested, but nothing. Not sure what else to try. And having posted this I notice that the new posts are fine- it's just the old posts I can't fix. Hmm.
Help, someone, anyone? Please? Have pity for the illiterate?
I don't even like this template too much. Much as I love the seaside, sandy beach, Jonathon Livingston scene, it's still waaay too mellow and serene to be me. But then I couldn't find much else, and I needed the change, so I figured I'd keep it for now. And then spent a couple of hours trying to fix it up anyways.
And I have yet to figure out expanded posts. Geez. Wait, no, I figured the expandable post thing.
Now I need to figure how to have every page link back to the main by clicking on something. I would say my title but I stuck it into the banner. hmm.
It never ends..
No, seriously, I've tried everything. I have this line in my template:
meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1
So I changed the character set encoding to iso-88589-1 from my settings as Blogger help suggested, but nothing. Not sure what else to try. And having posted this I notice that the new posts are fine- it's just the old posts I can't fix. Hmm.
Help, someone, anyone? Please? Have pity for the illiterate?
I don't even like this template too much. Much as I love the seaside, sandy beach, Jonathon Livingston scene, it's still waaay too mellow and serene to be me. But then I couldn't find much else, and I needed the change, so I figured I'd keep it for now. And then spent a couple of hours trying to fix it up anyways.
And I have yet to figure out expanded posts. Geez. Wait, no, I figured the expandable post thing.
Now I need to figure how to have every page link back to the main by clicking on something. I would say my title but I stuck it into the banner. hmm.
It never ends..
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
inso-mania
Written last night..
My mood, after that last rampage (to delete or not to delete?) has just dropped scarily low.
Walking home from the bus stop late, I felt so morbid again. My own demise kept flashing coldly, at the intersection, "She crossed on a red light and-", at the corner of my street, "She slipped on a stone and –"
I made it home. No panic though, I know this will pass. It’s just a surprise when it comes into my mind like that. I am tired of this self-medication, this self-control.
I’m afraid you’ll call me now and I’ll start to cry. But then again, you won’t call. It sounds like an accusation, but it’s not.
I have protected myself from these downs for so long, and these downs have protected me so long too. An acoustic guitar and a smoky raspy voice fill this rest nicely, just don’t let it stop. I’ll put songs on a loop, put on my headphones so the neighbors don’t complain, and live this out until morning, no problem. Soon I’ll be sleepy and soon I’ll wake up, and half the day will be gone.
I am thinking how you’re the one who has finally taught me that I must keep rhythm, but it is the slightest of pauses between bars, my hesitation, and the rushing over notes, my abandon, that will make a piece of music mine. That you can be given dynamic directions, but that the way my fingers increase and decrease in pressure to achieve this are what open windows into the concentration, the emotion only I can bring to the song. But then, I am no maestro, and it’s actually very difficult, more than it sounds. I still work to just play with my fingers on the right keys.
It is weird that it is just your one short comment after hearing me play for the first time that has driven this home. My poor, tiny piano teacher with flashy lashy eyes and a surprisingly booming voice tried for years. But then, I was still in high school.
I remember her standing over me to the side, usually holding her one (then two then three) year old -who refused to nap - on one hip, slapping the beat out with her palm on her other hip. She had this way of singing along her directions in operatic, not to mention heavily accented, form.
“PAMpampamPAMpampamrrrrrampampamp, yes, yes, saaaaad, sad-Learn- sad. SHH, shh shh. Be like baaaaby, shh. You’re sleeping shh. Not like my daughter haha- shhh. Nonono don’t wake up yet, don’t, just fastfastfast, pampampamp, faaaster, starting to awaaaaaake- good, good, yes- ANgry, who woke me up? Why?’ Taking her grinning daughter’s fist and shaking it towards me, so that we’d both have to laugh . “..ahaha-now yes, NOW YOU’RE STRONG. Nono, STRONG, Learn, you know STRONG? You know, be like… WAAR, yes?”
She would grab my wrist suddenly sometimes too. She would have me continue to play, her finger loosely on my pulse. “You are not… relaxed. You must be relaxed, huh? Breathe.”
She had all these tricks for the difficult parts. To play staccato, practice it exaggeratingly legato. To play fast, practice it extremely slow. To play hands together, you must first practice separately. Break it down. “You see?” she would sing-song proudly, when it worked. “Vicey-versa alvays.. if you want one way, you must to do the vicey-versa first!”
I miss her. (Hence the tangent.)
But you know, it reminds me of your voice, you master its rises and drops much like that, like the thought has already been broken down fully to you. And you fuck like that too.
I wrote a silly poem about your voice once, very early on. I will get over my embarrassment and send it to you one day. You have always been kind for not taking anything I tell you about you the wrong way.
he speaks
in greedy gulps
holding heavy breath
releasing at
end of sentence
with a sigh
running out
ragged
on
edges
of
words
slight gasp to replace
comma or space
pangs of life
adorning phrases
latent need
expelling clauses
rapid-fire
you listen
his rise and
fall
his break andstart
you wonder
what
tension
what devil thought
what brain swirl
forcing taut
air of lungs and throat
and how it will be drawn
out
from him
to you
I do not know why I write this post to you, Friend. I want to write to anyone, Friend, I swear you’re just the first to cross my mind. I know I won’t send it. Maybe you are just abstract enough, don’t think I could chew this fat with a real, concrete friend today.
I came with you this morning. You had me touching her this time, wanted me to cum from that, knew it would make you struggle inside to watch me cum from her tight smooth body on me, not from you, as you fucked her. I was tired, and sick and getting ready to go to school. And you teased me after we were done, said I could have just listened to you. I didn’t have to join in. "But how could I not?", was my laughing question of an answer.
I’ve chosen to walk this plank with you. Truth is I am not feeling as adventurous today, but sometimes I must pretend because I know the courage will show up another day. And I did still cum, gently, almost dejectedly. But actually there was no dejection, it was just a small contained flicker of triumph, still whole and beautiful. It was a hot thought you shared, I took it and used it with none of my usual urgency. And I wanted to feel safe so I listened to your words yes, but I admit I listened closer for your by now familiar cum.
Right now, it would be nice to have a smile of love look down on me, just a second of it or two. A real one though, here in the room with me. I picture it, a gentle hand on my bowed neck, eyes that have seen me and want to see me again
It’s the first day of spring, I think of my lil tanka on O’s blog, the perpetuated pagan customs of regeneration.
Come spring we’d scribble
Wishes on paper and hang
Them from tree branches
Or sometimes just tie a cloth
And leave it to flap, silent
I wonder if I have so much as a rag or ribbon to tie now.
I’m listening to this song now, Hijikata Tatsumi, by Mia Doi Todd. She has such a haunting soulful voice, it is dangerous, as are the words.
He danced on his deathbed
And so performed his final dance
For friends, family and lovers
And all those who'd had the chance
To know him, to love him
To know him, to love him
My domesticated body
And my mind by moderation tamed
Seethe within my Xerox-copied skin
And I ask him
"Is all freedom dark ?"
He danced on his deathbed
And so performed his final dance
For friends, family and lovers
And all those who'd had the chance
To know him, to love him
To know him, to love him
One thousand and one birds
Take off in an instant
Flying feeling-filling through the air
And I ask them
"Is all freedom light ?"He danced on his deathbed
And so performed his final dance
For friends, family and lovers
And all those who'd had the chance
I try not to confuse issues when I am like this. The problem is not you, or love, these I have the heart to deal with. I think you know I care about you, want you to be happy. I think/hope you feel this too. This caring is easy , doesn’t feel particularly deep or cutting, not this revelation it is supposed to come to be. It can be more profound, but it is not for us. We seem to graze close now and then, but then it just flits away, nothing really substantial to keep us here. Do you feel that too?
But you walk into my life, I will care for you, it has always been like that. You and me are where we should be, Friend, and will end up where we should too.
I just need to find what I need to do next. I need to really find something I want to do. I know this is why I panic every time I have work to do. It’s just not interesting enough to me anymore.
I need a place to place myself.
I do feel calmer for having written this. I’ll have a glass of cold, clean water on ice, and go to sleep.
Monday, March 20, 2006
not to read please
Me go crazy-crazy. I am possibly whacked up on Coke and cinnamon gum. It’s the new …coke. Cocaine that is. Not carbon. Haha I make unfunny funny. Professor inflict, so I’d like to inflict back to the cummunity whilst I vegetate in the computer lab.
I have zeez moments yoo know, I am not sure how it managed not to come out more fully over these bery auspicious months, I vant to uhh how you say? I want to go coocoo yes, and I put on an accent and the accent it eez not my accent, I have none, les Canadiens me disent que je parles l’anglais exceptionellement. Anticonstitutionellement in fact. Ils voudraient savoir pouquoi je ne possedes pas d’un accent. Puck you and all you hockey-motherpuckers, je reponds. But I have dis fake, undeniably obnoxious accent, it is undefined cumulative, no wait, coomoolatif accent of mah exposure, I take on identity of others, I love it so, it make me laff-happy, I is even gangsta sometimes yo, left it, mad scenes going left right in my head, it’s the deelyo and completely okely dokely I tell you, old sport. Haloo, I speaka good English, I learn it from eh boook. I slave-drive my commas and make them do work they should not be doing on their minimum wage, I am perfectly aware. Comma chameleon karma will come to bite me in the ass. Stick a dash in my semicolon. I comma, they come, we cum, ah but the combers, they are the best. Here I comb. I’m combing, I’m combing, yes, uh, faster, harder. So smoos and untangled, yesyesyes. I’d like to secrete a secret, little known fact, ‘pro’-vitamins in your kondeesyoner are not professional vitamins at all. In fact, they vill not feed your hair, they feed you lies. Fuckin amateurs. No woman, no cry, its still very smoossifyng and will make you smoochable. Because rumor has it that frizzy-haired women don’t get kissy-kisses. Don’t look at me, I’m just reporting werd on the street, dawg, live, 24 hrs a day. I CaN eVeN talk like internet-brat: wat up? lol brb ttyl ^_% ow shampoo in my right eye, left, right. (leftrightleft) I poke no fun, I am it all, I do it all, I’d do you all if you gave me the right look with the corner of your left eye. Ya know what I mean bro? How’dya get tham gal?
How in the bloody hell- ah mean how- ah mean how in bloody carnations- am I going to recount my sex life here on end? My wish to is fading. I take huge pleasure out of small things in life. What will I do now that I’ve got to the huge things? Make em small and safe inside me? It is not even that, I’m just out of powerful phrases. We kicked it up a notch and I hate Emeril. I will not say bang. If I put on accent and make silly, maybe then you understand? If I tell you, le T, when he putta his melting popsicle in my poutine...cheesy curd reference not so smart perhaps. I apologise for imagery, oui, non, pas oui- nasal wanh? He tella me later I comb so different when he fucka me compared to when we uh talk- and I know this – we throb throb throb like my achy-breaky heart, I just don’t think you’d understand. Or even compared to when he only put his fingers on me. But he put his buzzer on me, not his buzzard, not his buzz-cut, he has neither, his whir-whir, you know, his *snap snap snap fingers* his vibrator ah that is ze word. His one has two heads, two headed-monster, one for me, one for him, but I get lucky, two for me, none for him, and la piece de resistance, le cock for me too. Poor asshole. Speaking of which, where do you think the second bzzzizzer went? In mine truly. I went bzzzerk. You know where the first one went, on my clittola, daaaamn straight. Made me hold it there, right until I wanted to cum. Then he brushed my hands off abruptly. But I want to comb I said, with my eyes of course, my mouth was busy moaning. Enough with the combing joke of a non-joke? Never, I refuse, no one asked you to read. Click that next blog button. I have other buttons to press. Ah but the second little metalhead, it feel like giant when he start to move it down into skin between, and then I realise where he going, and he push and oh feel so good and mghfhsfd. I will talk of this more seriously later, repeat after me: repetition, repetition, repetition. You were screaming, he tell me later. Every time he tell me ready, set, GO, I went, I mean I came. He no have to tell me, I know. You take it deep for such slight girl, he say. Actually he call me small and then opt for average-sized. I take out tape-measure next time. Not very fair to ask men about their penis dimensions, if we do not give our cunt dimensions, don't you think? I know one is a bit harder to measure than the other, but is that the guy's fault? I'ma design a cunt-measurer some day, can be my scientific contribution to society. It will turn the world topsy-turvy. We can also do a test-of-grip, a measurement of Newtonic elastic force in our walls. And if we gonna measure anything on a guy, we should do tests of turgidity. Not the amount of water displaced when the male component enters a bathtub, but the speed at which the water leaves. Ay? Nudge, nudge, wink, wink. Anyhoo, size is subjectif, even though so many are possesif about it. Personally I prefer you meet me in the place with no dimensions first. But I do admit, with him, a little cervix-pushing, not too much, not for too long, just the way he did it, do feel good, feel like me Jane, can make me feel like my eyes gonna do a boing out of my head. And then his Brownian motion much-vibing-head numero uno entered -stage left- back into my hand onto my miniature potent peenass hah ok even I don’t think that’s funny, not that there’s anything wrong with that, I had a dream I made out with a hermaphrodite, it was sublime, I was in tears, crying, so beautiful, so bootiful, sob, you canna ken it, but anyways, numero uno bullet touch base with my home-base, and I stroke it over his cock too as it enters me, still stuffed up my ass with jumping jiving numero dos, you understand. There we go, he murmurs, theeere we go. I like his there we gos. We do go there, it is such accurate sentimentation. (Cept his face stareth down with such casual delibrate intent throughout, and I doth be a tad scared, a ton wet and perchance a midge queasy?) And then in the end, after my many ends and beginnings, he make pool of come on my stomach hurt. Someone somewhere on the blog-o-ellipsical-sphere called it his pancake batter once, I forget where, I think he was serious, and I laughed till my Coke and cinnamon gum came out of my nose. I’m crude and rude today, oh dear. I apologize to the pancake batter-up-er. Deary deary me.
The above is why recreational drugs and me have chosen not to ever approach each other. Non-rec too if I can avoid it. Some would say I am perhaps better off not avoiding.
Screw this, it was the best of screws, and no other kind, but read the post below this instead yo, it’s got my soul in it and shit. This one does too, showtime half-time entertainment soul, but other one's got da blues too. Sing it.
I have zeez moments yoo know, I am not sure how it managed not to come out more fully over these bery auspicious months, I vant to uhh how you say? I want to go coocoo yes, and I put on an accent and the accent it eez not my accent, I have none, les Canadiens me disent que je parles l’anglais exceptionellement. Anticonstitutionellement in fact. Ils voudraient savoir pouquoi je ne possedes pas d’un accent. Puck you and all you hockey-motherpuckers, je reponds. But I have dis fake, undeniably obnoxious accent, it is undefined cumulative, no wait, coomoolatif accent of mah exposure, I take on identity of others, I love it so, it make me laff-happy, I is even gangsta sometimes yo, left it, mad scenes going left right in my head, it’s the deelyo and completely okely dokely I tell you, old sport. Haloo, I speaka good English, I learn it from eh boook. I slave-drive my commas and make them do work they should not be doing on their minimum wage, I am perfectly aware. Comma chameleon karma will come to bite me in the ass. Stick a dash in my semicolon. I comma, they come, we cum, ah but the combers, they are the best. Here I comb. I’m combing, I’m combing, yes, uh, faster, harder. So smoos and untangled, yesyesyes. I’d like to secrete a secret, little known fact, ‘pro’-vitamins in your kondeesyoner are not professional vitamins at all. In fact, they vill not feed your hair, they feed you lies. Fuckin amateurs. No woman, no cry, its still very smoossifyng and will make you smoochable. Because rumor has it that frizzy-haired women don’t get kissy-kisses. Don’t look at me, I’m just reporting werd on the street, dawg, live, 24 hrs a day. I CaN eVeN talk like internet-brat: wat up? lol brb ttyl ^_% ow shampoo in my right eye, left, right. (leftrightleft) I poke no fun, I am it all, I do it all, I’d do you all if you gave me the right look with the corner of your left eye. Ya know what I mean bro? How’dya get tham gal?
How in the bloody hell- ah mean how- ah mean how in bloody carnations- am I going to recount my sex life here on end? My wish to is fading. I take huge pleasure out of small things in life. What will I do now that I’ve got to the huge things? Make em small and safe inside me? It is not even that, I’m just out of powerful phrases. We kicked it up a notch and I hate Emeril. I will not say bang. If I put on accent and make silly, maybe then you understand? If I tell you, le T, when he putta his melting popsicle in my poutine...cheesy curd reference not so smart perhaps. I apologise for imagery, oui, non, pas oui- nasal wanh? He tella me later I comb so different when he fucka me compared to when we uh talk- and I know this – we throb throb throb like my achy-breaky heart, I just don’t think you’d understand. Or even compared to when he only put his fingers on me. But he put his buzzer on me, not his buzzard, not his buzz-cut, he has neither, his whir-whir, you know, his *snap snap snap fingers* his vibrator ah that is ze word. His one has two heads, two headed-monster, one for me, one for him, but I get lucky, two for me, none for him, and la piece de resistance, le cock for me too. Poor asshole. Speaking of which, where do you think the second bzzzizzer went? In mine truly. I went bzzzerk. You know where the first one went, on my clittola, daaaamn straight. Made me hold it there, right until I wanted to cum. Then he brushed my hands off abruptly. But I want to comb I said, with my eyes of course, my mouth was busy moaning. Enough with the combing joke of a non-joke? Never, I refuse, no one asked you to read. Click that next blog button. I have other buttons to press. Ah but the second little metalhead, it feel like giant when he start to move it down into skin between, and then I realise where he going, and he push and oh feel so good and mghfhsfd. I will talk of this more seriously later, repeat after me: repetition, repetition, repetition. You were screaming, he tell me later. Every time he tell me ready, set, GO, I went, I mean I came. He no have to tell me, I know. You take it deep for such slight girl, he say. Actually he call me small and then opt for average-sized. I take out tape-measure next time. Not very fair to ask men about their penis dimensions, if we do not give our cunt dimensions, don't you think? I know one is a bit harder to measure than the other, but is that the guy's fault? I'ma design a cunt-measurer some day, can be my scientific contribution to society. It will turn the world topsy-turvy. We can also do a test-of-grip, a measurement of Newtonic elastic force in our walls. And if we gonna measure anything on a guy, we should do tests of turgidity. Not the amount of water displaced when the male component enters a bathtub, but the speed at which the water leaves. Ay? Nudge, nudge, wink, wink. Anyhoo, size is subjectif, even though so many are possesif about it. Personally I prefer you meet me in the place with no dimensions first. But I do admit, with him, a little cervix-pushing, not too much, not for too long, just the way he did it, do feel good, feel like me Jane, can make me feel like my eyes gonna do a boing out of my head. And then his Brownian motion much-vibing-head numero uno entered -stage left- back into my hand onto my miniature potent peenass hah ok even I don’t think that’s funny, not that there’s anything wrong with that, I had a dream I made out with a hermaphrodite, it was sublime, I was in tears, crying, so beautiful, so bootiful, sob, you canna ken it, but anyways, numero uno bullet touch base with my home-base, and I stroke it over his cock too as it enters me, still stuffed up my ass with jumping jiving numero dos, you understand. There we go, he murmurs, theeere we go. I like his there we gos. We do go there, it is such accurate sentimentation. (Cept his face stareth down with such casual delibrate intent throughout, and I doth be a tad scared, a ton wet and perchance a midge queasy?) And then in the end, after my many ends and beginnings, he make pool of come on my stomach hurt. Someone somewhere on the blog-o-ellipsical-sphere called it his pancake batter once, I forget where, I think he was serious, and I laughed till my Coke and cinnamon gum came out of my nose. I’m crude and rude today, oh dear. I apologize to the pancake batter-up-er. Deary deary me.
The above is why recreational drugs and me have chosen not to ever approach each other. Non-rec too if I can avoid it. Some would say I am perhaps better off not avoiding.
Screw this, it was the best of screws, and no other kind, but read the post below this instead yo, it’s got my soul in it and shit. This one does too, showtime half-time entertainment soul, but other one's got da blues too. Sing it.
Friday, March 17, 2006
r.i.p.
I’m serial posting on top of posts like no tommorow. I don’t really care.
This going to be rough. I hope I can admit this. I hope this will be true. I copped out two posts ago. Didn't lie, but evaded.
Yesterday, T also explained fully to me why he’d like to do this threesome. It was strangely in keeping with my thoughts a couple of days ago, though I’ve never brought up any of this to him.
He said he’s at the point where he needs to make a decision. He needs to decide if he’d like to settle down. If he needs more companionship. Or if he should continue doing what he’s doing: ‘having fun’. And if he continues what he’s doing, then he needs to decide if he wants to continue it just with me, or explore more with others. Then again, he’s nearly 29, he says. Maybe it’s time to find someone, maybe even live with them, just stop and explore each other, fully.
Oh.
He said my sleeping with someone else reminded him in a way of the nature of casual sex. (Not ‘with limits’ this time, just ‘casual.’ Tiny flinch inside.) It reminded him that if we weren’t getting the support, the devotion, the attention of a relationship, then we should be doing the things we can. Milking the freedom basically.
Oh.
(Except N was me being rash and random, testing the freedom and then getting practically nothing out of it. But ah well. You do things, and they give messages. Was that the message I was going for? Did I steer us further this way? )
I do get what he means. What is the point, if he’s not enjoying this to its maximum? What is the point, if he’s giving up, but not getting?
I think too we’re at a good point at which to do this, and it is something we really want to try. And like he said, something that’s going to haunt us if we don’t. We have enough trust, enough freedom. This took a while to build. This may be his last chance. For me too in a way, when will I get the chance again? These things are riskier in the context of a full relationship, he’s right.
I say I don’t want a boyfriend right now. And I don’t. I don’t want to date. I don’t know if I can do it over and over, bond and break, bond and break. T has talked of this too, his stint of year-long serial monogamies bringing him to where he is now. Where are you left after that, how do you give for a different one after the other and keep yourself together? Is my hope strong enough for that?
I want a friend though for my life. A close, good, solid, stick-with-me friend. I want to be that for someone. I don’t want to be alone.
The last two paragraphs nullify each other, huh? I’ve known this. Known I will have to shake and loosen my shoulders, get ready to kick punch back in. I need this time though.
I can live alone, I can take care of myself. Well enough for me, and I’ll get better along the way. I enjoy my own company. For all my ups and downs, I’m ok with me, give or take. I learn.
But I just want someone. It’s a need. It’s hard to describe, yet totally obvious. We all have it to some extent. And it’s not a fairytale. It’s life. A passing on of life, I’ve said it before over and over, but it’s all I can come back to. I feel it really strongly. It’s not just about children, though that is the most blatant expression of it I guess.
A partner. I want a partner. I don’t know why. I think it’s more than just conditioning though. Or it’s a conditioning that goes deep, deep into who I am. And if it’s that deep, that fundamental and indomitable, then hell, it’s me.
But, back to my ‘oh’s. I’d love to ignore them. We could let them slip by, our little secret. I could bitch about the pressure of finding a girl, rave about the fabulous sex we had, and no one would ever have to know, not even me. I could almost make it dissapear. Should I?
It’s weird to really know that you’re not meant to be with a person, and then still feel down and disappointed about it. It’s weird to hope he finds it, then still be envious of it. It’s more than him not seeing me as that person. Though yes, there is always something difficult there. But try as I might, I can’t see him fully as that person either. I meant it when I said we were always a bit off. Even talking to each other about normal day-to-day has sometimes been difficult.
Why? What is it? Why is he not quite there? Then again, how’d he get so far in the first place? Predictable I suppose. Are you laughing? I would have supported him more though, I could have known him more, I don’t know how far, but much, much further than this. That was true from the first day, from my first hug and thank you. I could have been the girl in my ad easily for him.
Still not enough.
This girl that T will live with and explore is not me.
(What if? How could it have been? Maybe if we lived closer? If we had more time? If if if.. )
So close, and yet so far with him. Diverging always right when we’re about to meet. I expected this from the start, knew it, braved it, am glad for it still. But I want to put a hand on my heart for a moment, and give a moment of silence for this passing away.
Not yet, but soon. I have a feeling probably soon after this threesome, he will make his decision. I think inside his decision is already made. I still want to do this with him.
It’s time, anyways, that we both faced up.
I watch the door now, it’s getting ready, begins to close, closing, closing, once and for all.
He stops in the middle of what he’s saying, says ‘I don’t know, I do like this.. what we have.’
‘It’s been good,’ I reply simply and truly, smiling despite myself. I’m outside, pacing back and forth underneath bare maple trees, it’s a relatively warm day, people rushing by me to their lectures and labs and lunch.
‘And we do have a sexual chemistry that’s.. way above average. Hope you feel like that too’
‘I do..of course.’
I’ll put it on our headstone.
Here lies Learn and Teach. Theirs was a way above average sexual chemistry.
(Wonder if I will post this. I will have to admit some of this to him, but I don’t know how much. I hate that I’ve written this now, already. It’s premature to be writing him off like this. Maybe I shouldn’t post. Everything else I’ve wanted to write about suddenly seems pointless. I’m going to go on though. What’s happened was real, and what will still happen will be real too. I’ll ignore this shadow for now, sneak peeks at it to see if it’s growing. )
This going to be rough. I hope I can admit this. I hope this will be true. I copped out two posts ago. Didn't lie, but evaded.
Yesterday, T also explained fully to me why he’d like to do this threesome. It was strangely in keeping with my thoughts a couple of days ago, though I’ve never brought up any of this to him.
He said he’s at the point where he needs to make a decision. He needs to decide if he’d like to settle down. If he needs more companionship. Or if he should continue doing what he’s doing: ‘having fun’. And if he continues what he’s doing, then he needs to decide if he wants to continue it just with me, or explore more with others. Then again, he’s nearly 29, he says. Maybe it’s time to find someone, maybe even live with them, just stop and explore each other, fully.
Oh.
He said my sleeping with someone else reminded him in a way of the nature of casual sex. (Not ‘with limits’ this time, just ‘casual.’ Tiny flinch inside.) It reminded him that if we weren’t getting the support, the devotion, the attention of a relationship, then we should be doing the things we can. Milking the freedom basically.
Oh.
(Except N was me being rash and random, testing the freedom and then getting practically nothing out of it. But ah well. You do things, and they give messages. Was that the message I was going for? Did I steer us further this way? )
I do get what he means. What is the point, if he’s not enjoying this to its maximum? What is the point, if he’s giving up, but not getting?
I think too we’re at a good point at which to do this, and it is something we really want to try. And like he said, something that’s going to haunt us if we don’t. We have enough trust, enough freedom. This took a while to build. This may be his last chance. For me too in a way, when will I get the chance again? These things are riskier in the context of a full relationship, he’s right.
I say I don’t want a boyfriend right now. And I don’t. I don’t want to date. I don’t know if I can do it over and over, bond and break, bond and break. T has talked of this too, his stint of year-long serial monogamies bringing him to where he is now. Where are you left after that, how do you give for a different one after the other and keep yourself together? Is my hope strong enough for that?
I want a friend though for my life. A close, good, solid, stick-with-me friend. I want to be that for someone. I don’t want to be alone.
The last two paragraphs nullify each other, huh? I’ve known this. Known I will have to shake and loosen my shoulders, get ready to kick punch back in. I need this time though.
I can live alone, I can take care of myself. Well enough for me, and I’ll get better along the way. I enjoy my own company. For all my ups and downs, I’m ok with me, give or take. I learn.
But I just want someone. It’s a need. It’s hard to describe, yet totally obvious. We all have it to some extent. And it’s not a fairytale. It’s life. A passing on of life, I’ve said it before over and over, but it’s all I can come back to. I feel it really strongly. It’s not just about children, though that is the most blatant expression of it I guess.
A partner. I want a partner. I don’t know why. I think it’s more than just conditioning though. Or it’s a conditioning that goes deep, deep into who I am. And if it’s that deep, that fundamental and indomitable, then hell, it’s me.
But, back to my ‘oh’s. I’d love to ignore them. We could let them slip by, our little secret. I could bitch about the pressure of finding a girl, rave about the fabulous sex we had, and no one would ever have to know, not even me. I could almost make it dissapear. Should I?
It’s weird to really know that you’re not meant to be with a person, and then still feel down and disappointed about it. It’s weird to hope he finds it, then still be envious of it. It’s more than him not seeing me as that person. Though yes, there is always something difficult there. But try as I might, I can’t see him fully as that person either. I meant it when I said we were always a bit off. Even talking to each other about normal day-to-day has sometimes been difficult.
Why? What is it? Why is he not quite there? Then again, how’d he get so far in the first place? Predictable I suppose. Are you laughing? I would have supported him more though, I could have known him more, I don’t know how far, but much, much further than this. That was true from the first day, from my first hug and thank you. I could have been the girl in my ad easily for him.
Still not enough.
This girl that T will live with and explore is not me.
(What if? How could it have been? Maybe if we lived closer? If we had more time? If if if.. )
So close, and yet so far with him. Diverging always right when we’re about to meet. I expected this from the start, knew it, braved it, am glad for it still. But I want to put a hand on my heart for a moment, and give a moment of silence for this passing away.
Not yet, but soon. I have a feeling probably soon after this threesome, he will make his decision. I think inside his decision is already made. I still want to do this with him.
It’s time, anyways, that we both faced up.
I watch the door now, it’s getting ready, begins to close, closing, closing, once and for all.
He stops in the middle of what he’s saying, says ‘I don’t know, I do like this.. what we have.’
‘It’s been good,’ I reply simply and truly, smiling despite myself. I’m outside, pacing back and forth underneath bare maple trees, it’s a relatively warm day, people rushing by me to their lectures and labs and lunch.
‘And we do have a sexual chemistry that’s.. way above average. Hope you feel like that too’
‘I do..of course.’
I’ll put it on our headstone.
Here lies Learn and Teach. Theirs was a way above average sexual chemistry.
(Wonder if I will post this. I will have to admit some of this to him, but I don’t know how much. I hate that I’ve written this now, already. It’s premature to be writing him off like this. Maybe I shouldn’t post. Everything else I’ve wanted to write about suddenly seems pointless. I’m going to go on though. What’s happened was real, and what will still happen will be real too. I’ll ignore this shadow for now, sneak peeks at it to see if it’s growing. )
burn
My bursting need to write whenever I have deadlines looming is really annoying. I can't seem to want to write under any other conditions though.
Just a little break now for this morning. I talked to my mom on the phone this morning, and she brought up a little children's ditty. I feel like translating it and putting it here.
March is here, we watch from the window.
Burn the wooden handles of our shovels for fire.
It's simple and trite, I like.
Just a little break now for this morning. I talked to my mom on the phone this morning, and she brought up a little children's ditty. I feel like translating it and putting it here.
March is here, we watch from the window.
Burn the wooden handles of our shovels for fire.
It's simple and trite, I like.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
goodness gracious
I’m trying goshnabit.
So T tells me today I should be the one to find this girl, as a gesture of return. To give back. Remember the time on the phone with me when you came hands-free?, he asks. Well it’s my turn now. I think I deserve it, he says.
Yes you do dear , I say, maybe I do too a little bit?
Yes- he answers- but today it's all about me. Me, me, me. He grins, spreads his teeth in a cyber colon : and D.
Have I not taken you everywhere?, he asks.
And back, I flip.
I appreciate all he’s done for me, shown me, helped me with, I do.
It makes me feel small though, like a kid on Santa Claus’s lap. (Um. Herm. Will ignore implications of that analogy, thank you very much.)
I give and I give, he's saying. He’s right. But what do I give, T? I spread my legs and cum. I’m good at that. Yay me.
My time, my travel, my submission, my struggle, my anticipation, my writing, my thought, my energy. Me. I’ve given fragments of me, for what it’s worth. If it’s worth a shit. You took control, and I know it takes a lot. But don’t bind me motionless to your bed and then accuse me of not moving. ? Sigh, I know that’s not fair. He didn't even accuse. I know that’s not what this is about. That’s my own kind of insecurity. I'm hating this paragraph at this point. Next!
I’m stressed out of my brains. I have seven - count em seven- major things due in the next two weeks. He’s got me thinking about a hundred and one other things, some emotional, some not, all consuming. All this stuff I want to write. I’ve got a fire in between my legs, and a flood in my mind. Or is it the other way around?
I’m just pumping a-weary.
I don’t even know why he feels the need to push this to me. I agreed to find her. I want this. I am more than happy to be the one putting in the time and energy to find her. Sure, it’s the least I can do, T, oh Teacher my Teacher. (That sarcasm too is totally undeserved, and completely ruins my point, but it's just my mood, I swear. )
But I need time goddamit. None of this demure goshnabit business, just fucking damn it all to hell. I don’t know how to hook in women and send them his way for the charming. It’s not something I do everyday. It's a tough skill. I try. I smile, I insinuate, I’m occasionally blunt, but always polite. I make chit-chat, I answer sexual questions honestly, with real enthusiasm. I ask questions back. I try not to pressure, try not to be vague. I’m me. I try to get to know these women, and all I get are walls and games.
We just want to meet and talk with people of the female persuasion face to face. They have ads up that sound like they wish to do the same. This shouldn’t be this hard. Then again I shouldn’t talk, T e-mailed me for all of 2 years. But this is a sex site, they say they want to meet couples, you’d think they’d be more forthcoming. I’m questioning if it’s me, but I’m not that scary, honestly, I'm not. (OR AM I?)
And I have things to do. And I can’t let this take over. I have parents calling me. Familial duties. Friends asking to come over. My house is a constant insurmountable mess. Professors asking for my brain in a pickle jar to keep, with a small salad, dressing on the side, please. I haven't cooked a full meal in weeks. My head is splitting and I'm coming down with a cold, again. I can’t even concentrate.
I know, I know, I know: patience. I just feel incredibly bitchy. T’s not helping, lord bless his little cock. Ok make that large cock. Gosh bless it in all its goodness glory.
I could use some chocolate.
No, it's not PMS. Fuck off.
No, not you, come back, I like you.
So T tells me today I should be the one to find this girl, as a gesture of return. To give back. Remember the time on the phone with me when you came hands-free?, he asks. Well it’s my turn now. I think I deserve it, he says.
Yes you do dear , I say, maybe I do too a little bit?
Yes- he answers- but today it's all about me. Me, me, me. He grins, spreads his teeth in a cyber colon : and D.
Have I not taken you everywhere?, he asks.
And back, I flip.
I appreciate all he’s done for me, shown me, helped me with, I do.
It makes me feel small though, like a kid on Santa Claus’s lap. (Um. Herm. Will ignore implications of that analogy, thank you very much.)
I give and I give, he's saying. He’s right. But what do I give, T? I spread my legs and cum. I’m good at that. Yay me.
My time, my travel, my submission, my struggle, my anticipation, my writing, my thought, my energy. Me. I’ve given fragments of me, for what it’s worth. If it’s worth a shit. You took control, and I know it takes a lot. But don’t bind me motionless to your bed and then accuse me of not moving. ? Sigh, I know that’s not fair. He didn't even accuse. I know that’s not what this is about. That’s my own kind of insecurity. I'm hating this paragraph at this point. Next!
I’m stressed out of my brains. I have seven - count em seven- major things due in the next two weeks. He’s got me thinking about a hundred and one other things, some emotional, some not, all consuming. All this stuff I want to write. I’ve got a fire in between my legs, and a flood in my mind. Or is it the other way around?
I’m just pumping a-weary.
I don’t even know why he feels the need to push this to me. I agreed to find her. I want this. I am more than happy to be the one putting in the time and energy to find her. Sure, it’s the least I can do, T, oh Teacher my Teacher. (That sarcasm too is totally undeserved, and completely ruins my point, but it's just my mood, I swear. )
But I need time goddamit. None of this demure goshnabit business, just fucking damn it all to hell. I don’t know how to hook in women and send them his way for the charming. It’s not something I do everyday. It's a tough skill. I try. I smile, I insinuate, I’m occasionally blunt, but always polite. I make chit-chat, I answer sexual questions honestly, with real enthusiasm. I ask questions back. I try not to pressure, try not to be vague. I’m me. I try to get to know these women, and all I get are walls and games.
We just want to meet and talk with people of the female persuasion face to face. They have ads up that sound like they wish to do the same. This shouldn’t be this hard. Then again I shouldn’t talk, T e-mailed me for all of 2 years. But this is a sex site, they say they want to meet couples, you’d think they’d be more forthcoming. I’m questioning if it’s me, but I’m not that scary, honestly, I'm not. (OR AM I?)
And I have things to do. And I can’t let this take over. I have parents calling me. Familial duties. Friends asking to come over. My house is a constant insurmountable mess. Professors asking for my brain in a pickle jar to keep, with a small salad, dressing on the side, please. I haven't cooked a full meal in weeks. My head is splitting and I'm coming down with a cold, again. I can’t even concentrate.
I know, I know, I know: patience. I just feel incredibly bitchy. T’s not helping, lord bless his little cock. Ok make that large cock. Gosh bless it in all its goodness glory.
I could use some chocolate.
No, it's not PMS. Fuck off.
No, not you, come back, I like you.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
limits
I can’t catch up anyways to all that has been going on.
With T always, I have a history. I try to pick him up, but he is like a paperclip connected to magnetized paperclips. He leaves me all a-bramble and a-ramble. I’ve decided to just blather it out disjointedly for as long as it takes.
We hold on to friends we have a history with, like they will help the next day become our past too. Maybe we just value the ones who stand the test of time in some way. A history is not a future though. I have no delusions that way.
Time has passed true, but time has not tested us too much. Like strobe lights we have only caught each other in a few different conformations. Tired. Horny. Quiet. Silly. Who knows what goes on in between?
I’ve written an email to T when I was at my lowest though, let strange thoughts out. I remember I asked him how he was once after a long sickness, and he blurted to me that he had spent the night crying in a ball, feeling empty. Odd confessions here and there, comfort offered but little said. Odd things shared too, goat cheese and bread and rotten mango lunches, watching movies that suck, sitting quietly together with his cat on my lap, him chasing his cat like a maniac, him beating the crap out of me on his racing console game because I am fizzy and fuzzy from fucking (that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it), the math riddles he poses in lieu of pillow talk, playing on his grand piano, listening to him play, listening to favorite songs in his basement, or on my bed with two headphones stuck into a CD player. These are my happy little things, being able to share silly little things I like with people I like always makes me happy.
T asks me on the phone after a cum how I am doing “emotionally”. He asks every month or so, more often at the beginning. I have not forgotten, he says, how are you doing with the relationship, our limits, with us?
‘Our limits’ is what he always calls it. The taste of ‘our limits’ is comfortably sweet but with a vague bitter aftertaste. I have never done well with limits, but I prefer it to the myth of ‘no-strings’. I guess what it comes down to is that I don’t believe in denying ourselves for the sake of any constructed definitions, friend, lover, fuck buddy, whatever. It would be very easy to do so though, I am a little hyper-aware of this sometimes.
He wants to makes sure that I’m not beating my head over him, secretly dreaming of our house and kids, agonizing over why he does not feel the same way. He doesn’t say this, of course, just my own conjecture. You’ve seen me rant about him here, but I think most of my obsession surrounding him has been around our sex. Is that how it begins?
I never ask him how he is doing with us. He has assumed from the beginning the position of control. Maybe the five year age gap thing. Five years isn’t that long a time though.
Still, I never feel quite on equal footing with him. Believe me, this student-mentor way of relating with him sometimes is not so easy to swallow. I mean come on, T as my “mentor”? It all sounds too much like we’re having cross-legged conferences, waxing in, waxing out. ‘You must learn, grasshoppa’. And all that jazz.
I’m as skeptical as the next. I question and doubt him all the time.
But it’s just something we fell naturally into I guess. I can’t help but have respect for him and his experience. He never fully acknowledged it until I did comfortably, I know he feels it’s patronizing. But he sees it too.
It’s a bit of a kink too as I’ve admitted, the dynamic has my cunt twitching even as I roll my eyes.
But I digress. When it comes to denying ourselves, I have only one kind of fuzzy regret about T. One thing I remember a little ruefully.
My first night at T’s house, he announced that he wanted to listen to classical music with me. His own composition. Apparently, he hadn’t listened to it in years. It was something he had never been able to finish. He said it had taken hold a bit, and he had to take a break.
I know of the flat, controlled way we talk about the things that make us lose control, break off, give up. I felt a dark shadow loom suddenly behind that one quiet sentence. I knew not to ask questions, just nodded.
But I feel like listening to it tonight, he told me. I felt strangely honored.
So we went down to his basement and he put it on. It’s a little experimental, he warned.
We sat across from each other. He looked straight ahead, I looked mostly at the ground. The piece was lovely, stirring, guitars and violins dancing, with the kind of romping percussion that makes T… T. My heart couldn’t help but drop and rise with its swell. When it was done, I smiled, happy he shared it with me. Very nice, I murmured. And as I looked up, I was startled to see the look on T’s face. He had the look of a crest-fallen little boy. Raw and vulnerable. The second I caught it, he tried to sloppily fold his expression inwards, looked embarrassed. Sorry, I’m just bummed, I couldn’t.., he trailed. I understand, I said. I got up, gave him a hug, and said thank you. I meant it. He looked uncomfortable still even as we hugged. I backed off.
And then we had sex the next morning, and so we had to discuss what direction this was going to go. He made it very clear he didn’t want a relationship-relationship. Which actually made sense to me. But then he said he had ways of ‘protecting’ me a bit, if we did this. Said that he would make sure not to show his so-called mushy side much. No more classical music, he said, laughing self-consciously.
Oh. That was all I could think in response. My dissapointment in that moment upon hearing that really defines the vague regret left inside me. That he would have to ever force himself to hide a part of him from me. It seemed so.. fake.
I begin to realize though that in T’s case, he hasn’t really been too fake. Nothing's been forced. We’ve both kind of chosen not to share too many of our problems with each other. For me, I just didn’t want him to be my whining board. I knew he could be, but I just didn’t want to set up our dynamic that way.
So I do understand. And I do feel like he’s showed what he felt like sharing, let me do the same. If emotional boundaries weren’t pushed it was because we didn’t feel the need, or didn’t have that level of comfort maybe.
While discussing a possible relationship with N, T confessed he’s never really felt like kissing me. He said he’s not saying that it wouldn’t have gone that way at some point. And maybe we hadn’t seen each other often enough for long enough to really tell. But then I realized that for all the hooplah of my ‘why the no kissing??’ post, I haven’t wanted to either in these past months. We have sex and I am not searching out his mouth. I’m not wanting him that near. I wanted at the beginning, that one time when he saw it on my face and did it quickly and brusquely. But there is something about us that’s never felt like it could be a romance, with everything it entails. We are always just a bit..off.
There is something sad there, some door closed. I will always have mixed feelings about this I think. But it is important to see things for what they are, no more, no less.
The problem will come when one of us wants to push more than the other. I’ve stopped worrying about this. I’m guessing even that it will be me. I feel it coming closer. I will want to grow and expand this. There is so much to know of him. I cannot stay in this spot forever. There is so little time. Life is short, he wrote to me once when he finally asked to meet , I know this is a cliché too. (It was in response to the aforementioned confessional email actually.)
I refused to meet then, but the second time around it was me who asked. Or who just said that I would really like to meet. And I’ll never forget , he asked, only half-jokingly, what made me think I’d be so lucky. I deserved it a bit after my history of running away. It was no game on my part, I had so much on my plate, or rather the act of living felt like a four-course meal in itself. But still, his question was to be expected.
I remember my response too though. Laughed and said, ‘well, I can only let my wishes be known.. how lucky I get is always up to you’.. And sent him a wink. Good answer, he said, like I had passed some test. I thought it was too, for once.
I can always only let my wishes be known. But then of course, this is the hardest part. Elucidating the wish not only to him but to myself.
I’m glad in this case that I asked, and we did meet. It was a time when I was trying to fight fight my phobophobia, my fear of fear, the only thing I have to fear, once and for all . It all goes back to that summer you see, this whole blog will go back to the summer where it began in the end. The summer I tried to shake it all off.
That was the same summer I went to an amusement park with my siblings and made a pact with myself to go on all the rides they did. It seems obvious now, an embarrassingly obvious metaphor. But I didn’t realize at the time what I was trying to fight in all areas of my life. Rollercoasters scared me pallid and I usually left all but the most kiddy ones to others, watched from the ground. That summer, for the first time, I went on THE rollercoaster, the terrifying one where you were strapped on your feet, standing, so your legs dangled and you went headfirst with absolutely nothing in front of you, nothing to hold on to, plummeting over every dip and curve. Waiting in line for that rollercoaster, my toes curled in fright around my sandals, and when the bell signaled our turn to get on, my whole right leg suddenly seized and cramped up. Hurry up, my family urged, thinking I was making excuses. Gnheah, I said. Look at her toes, my sister pointed out, laughing. I could not straighten them out. Starting from my toes up to my waist, I was literally paralyzed in stiff panicky pain. I shook it off, stomping my feet like a maniac to make it go away. Laughing my pain, I hobbled on, screamed my soul off through the whole ride. And it was a double-scream, both from the pain of my constantly cramping right leg and the utter terror of not wanting to die.
(It’s funny, that cramp is left with me still since then. When my legs are wrapped around T, tensing my whole body to cum, it’ll come back, starting with my right big toe, a little ghost remnant I could never shake off.)
I’ve learnt so much from him since then. And it hasn’t only been about helping me open my mind to sex, though that has been the most of it. His open pretenseless passion has been an inspiration for me always, has touched my life more than I can really put to words.
When we first started off, he asked me if I had any questions or concerns about doing this with him. I surprised him by making my first question be about how we would end. I couldn’t help it, I saw this all, that I would be capable of carrying it off, that it would be something that enriched my life . But the summary and conclusion, I could not see. I know we never can, but it just seemed like in this case, the only way such a comfortable arrangement would end is if either one of us broke out, or less probably, both of us broke out in the same direction. But it would have to end. There are limits to limits too. Life is short.
The simple answer to my question is it ends when it stops being satisfying. The amount of pain or joy in this ending is hard to see. For now, I am still happy with this. I have enough to explore. I will hit the walls one of these days though.
Much of this is zooming through my head when he asks me about how I’m doing with ‘our limits’. And then before I can really answer,
‘Mind you. .I say limits.. but we .. I mean we do have. .a bit of history.. the whole time leading up to when we met.... I mean we are kind of..special?.. I mean.. we are .I think ..a good sexual match’
I am glad he says this, because he doesn’t have to. It means we’re on the same page when it comes to not down-playing or exaggerating what is there. It means the interaction I’ve felt is not a fantasy flight on my part.
The rest remains to be seen.
Wow, still lots to catch up with, I didn’t expect to have that much to say, but some of this has been brewing for months and months. I guess I’m just trying once and for all to see if I can describe, in excruciatingly lazy, repetitious and tedious detail, the nature of this relationship. It’s still kind of interesting to me.
Soon, soon I will get to the sex. The much awaited last bout of it which was just…wow.
With T always, I have a history. I try to pick him up, but he is like a paperclip connected to magnetized paperclips. He leaves me all a-bramble and a-ramble. I’ve decided to just blather it out disjointedly for as long as it takes.
We hold on to friends we have a history with, like they will help the next day become our past too. Maybe we just value the ones who stand the test of time in some way. A history is not a future though. I have no delusions that way.
Time has passed true, but time has not tested us too much. Like strobe lights we have only caught each other in a few different conformations. Tired. Horny. Quiet. Silly. Who knows what goes on in between?
I’ve written an email to T when I was at my lowest though, let strange thoughts out. I remember I asked him how he was once after a long sickness, and he blurted to me that he had spent the night crying in a ball, feeling empty. Odd confessions here and there, comfort offered but little said. Odd things shared too, goat cheese and bread and rotten mango lunches, watching movies that suck, sitting quietly together with his cat on my lap, him chasing his cat like a maniac, him beating the crap out of me on his racing console game because I am fizzy and fuzzy from fucking (that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it), the math riddles he poses in lieu of pillow talk, playing on his grand piano, listening to him play, listening to favorite songs in his basement, or on my bed with two headphones stuck into a CD player. These are my happy little things, being able to share silly little things I like with people I like always makes me happy.
T asks me on the phone after a cum how I am doing “emotionally”. He asks every month or so, more often at the beginning. I have not forgotten, he says, how are you doing with the relationship, our limits, with us?
‘Our limits’ is what he always calls it. The taste of ‘our limits’ is comfortably sweet but with a vague bitter aftertaste. I have never done well with limits, but I prefer it to the myth of ‘no-strings’. I guess what it comes down to is that I don’t believe in denying ourselves for the sake of any constructed definitions, friend, lover, fuck buddy, whatever. It would be very easy to do so though, I am a little hyper-aware of this sometimes.
He wants to makes sure that I’m not beating my head over him, secretly dreaming of our house and kids, agonizing over why he does not feel the same way. He doesn’t say this, of course, just my own conjecture. You’ve seen me rant about him here, but I think most of my obsession surrounding him has been around our sex. Is that how it begins?
I never ask him how he is doing with us. He has assumed from the beginning the position of control. Maybe the five year age gap thing. Five years isn’t that long a time though.
Still, I never feel quite on equal footing with him. Believe me, this student-mentor way of relating with him sometimes is not so easy to swallow. I mean come on, T as my “mentor”? It all sounds too much like we’re having cross-legged conferences, waxing in, waxing out. ‘You must learn, grasshoppa’. And all that jazz.
I’m as skeptical as the next. I question and doubt him all the time.
But it’s just something we fell naturally into I guess. I can’t help but have respect for him and his experience. He never fully acknowledged it until I did comfortably, I know he feels it’s patronizing. But he sees it too.
It’s a bit of a kink too as I’ve admitted, the dynamic has my cunt twitching even as I roll my eyes.
But I digress. When it comes to denying ourselves, I have only one kind of fuzzy regret about T. One thing I remember a little ruefully.
My first night at T’s house, he announced that he wanted to listen to classical music with me. His own composition. Apparently, he hadn’t listened to it in years. It was something he had never been able to finish. He said it had taken hold a bit, and he had to take a break.
I know of the flat, controlled way we talk about the things that make us lose control, break off, give up. I felt a dark shadow loom suddenly behind that one quiet sentence. I knew not to ask questions, just nodded.
But I feel like listening to it tonight, he told me. I felt strangely honored.
So we went down to his basement and he put it on. It’s a little experimental, he warned.
We sat across from each other. He looked straight ahead, I looked mostly at the ground. The piece was lovely, stirring, guitars and violins dancing, with the kind of romping percussion that makes T… T. My heart couldn’t help but drop and rise with its swell. When it was done, I smiled, happy he shared it with me. Very nice, I murmured. And as I looked up, I was startled to see the look on T’s face. He had the look of a crest-fallen little boy. Raw and vulnerable. The second I caught it, he tried to sloppily fold his expression inwards, looked embarrassed. Sorry, I’m just bummed, I couldn’t.., he trailed. I understand, I said. I got up, gave him a hug, and said thank you. I meant it. He looked uncomfortable still even as we hugged. I backed off.
And then we had sex the next morning, and so we had to discuss what direction this was going to go. He made it very clear he didn’t want a relationship-relationship. Which actually made sense to me. But then he said he had ways of ‘protecting’ me a bit, if we did this. Said that he would make sure not to show his so-called mushy side much. No more classical music, he said, laughing self-consciously.
Oh. That was all I could think in response. My dissapointment in that moment upon hearing that really defines the vague regret left inside me. That he would have to ever force himself to hide a part of him from me. It seemed so.. fake.
I begin to realize though that in T’s case, he hasn’t really been too fake. Nothing's been forced. We’ve both kind of chosen not to share too many of our problems with each other. For me, I just didn’t want him to be my whining board. I knew he could be, but I just didn’t want to set up our dynamic that way.
So I do understand. And I do feel like he’s showed what he felt like sharing, let me do the same. If emotional boundaries weren’t pushed it was because we didn’t feel the need, or didn’t have that level of comfort maybe.
While discussing a possible relationship with N, T confessed he’s never really felt like kissing me. He said he’s not saying that it wouldn’t have gone that way at some point. And maybe we hadn’t seen each other often enough for long enough to really tell. But then I realized that for all the hooplah of my ‘why the no kissing??’ post, I haven’t wanted to either in these past months. We have sex and I am not searching out his mouth. I’m not wanting him that near. I wanted at the beginning, that one time when he saw it on my face and did it quickly and brusquely. But there is something about us that’s never felt like it could be a romance, with everything it entails. We are always just a bit..off.
There is something sad there, some door closed. I will always have mixed feelings about this I think. But it is important to see things for what they are, no more, no less.
The problem will come when one of us wants to push more than the other. I’ve stopped worrying about this. I’m guessing even that it will be me. I feel it coming closer. I will want to grow and expand this. There is so much to know of him. I cannot stay in this spot forever. There is so little time. Life is short, he wrote to me once when he finally asked to meet , I know this is a cliché too. (It was in response to the aforementioned confessional email actually.)
I refused to meet then, but the second time around it was me who asked. Or who just said that I would really like to meet. And I’ll never forget , he asked, only half-jokingly, what made me think I’d be so lucky. I deserved it a bit after my history of running away. It was no game on my part, I had so much on my plate, or rather the act of living felt like a four-course meal in itself. But still, his question was to be expected.
I remember my response too though. Laughed and said, ‘well, I can only let my wishes be known.. how lucky I get is always up to you’.. And sent him a wink. Good answer, he said, like I had passed some test. I thought it was too, for once.
I can always only let my wishes be known. But then of course, this is the hardest part. Elucidating the wish not only to him but to myself.
I’m glad in this case that I asked, and we did meet. It was a time when I was trying to fight fight my phobophobia, my fear of fear, the only thing I have to fear, once and for all . It all goes back to that summer you see, this whole blog will go back to the summer where it began in the end. The summer I tried to shake it all off.
That was the same summer I went to an amusement park with my siblings and made a pact with myself to go on all the rides they did. It seems obvious now, an embarrassingly obvious metaphor. But I didn’t realize at the time what I was trying to fight in all areas of my life. Rollercoasters scared me pallid and I usually left all but the most kiddy ones to others, watched from the ground. That summer, for the first time, I went on THE rollercoaster, the terrifying one where you were strapped on your feet, standing, so your legs dangled and you went headfirst with absolutely nothing in front of you, nothing to hold on to, plummeting over every dip and curve. Waiting in line for that rollercoaster, my toes curled in fright around my sandals, and when the bell signaled our turn to get on, my whole right leg suddenly seized and cramped up. Hurry up, my family urged, thinking I was making excuses. Gnheah, I said. Look at her toes, my sister pointed out, laughing. I could not straighten them out. Starting from my toes up to my waist, I was literally paralyzed in stiff panicky pain. I shook it off, stomping my feet like a maniac to make it go away. Laughing my pain, I hobbled on, screamed my soul off through the whole ride. And it was a double-scream, both from the pain of my constantly cramping right leg and the utter terror of not wanting to die.
(It’s funny, that cramp is left with me still since then. When my legs are wrapped around T, tensing my whole body to cum, it’ll come back, starting with my right big toe, a little ghost remnant I could never shake off.)
I’ve learnt so much from him since then. And it hasn’t only been about helping me open my mind to sex, though that has been the most of it. His open pretenseless passion has been an inspiration for me always, has touched my life more than I can really put to words.
When we first started off, he asked me if I had any questions or concerns about doing this with him. I surprised him by making my first question be about how we would end. I couldn’t help it, I saw this all, that I would be capable of carrying it off, that it would be something that enriched my life . But the summary and conclusion, I could not see. I know we never can, but it just seemed like in this case, the only way such a comfortable arrangement would end is if either one of us broke out, or less probably, both of us broke out in the same direction. But it would have to end. There are limits to limits too. Life is short.
The simple answer to my question is it ends when it stops being satisfying. The amount of pain or joy in this ending is hard to see. For now, I am still happy with this. I have enough to explore. I will hit the walls one of these days though.
Much of this is zooming through my head when he asks me about how I’m doing with ‘our limits’. And then before I can really answer,
‘Mind you. .I say limits.. but we .. I mean we do have. .a bit of history.. the whole time leading up to when we met.... I mean we are kind of..special?.. I mean.. we are .I think ..a good sexual match’
I am glad he says this, because he doesn’t have to. It means we’re on the same page when it comes to not down-playing or exaggerating what is there. It means the interaction I’ve felt is not a fantasy flight on my part.
The rest remains to be seen.
Wow, still lots to catch up with, I didn’t expect to have that much to say, but some of this has been brewing for months and months. I guess I’m just trying once and for all to see if I can describe, in excruciatingly lazy, repetitious and tedious detail, the nature of this relationship. It’s still kind of interesting to me.
Soon, soon I will get to the sex. The much awaited last bout of it which was just…wow.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
time after time
What is it about us and time? , T asks, as we walk briskly back to his house. I’m taking wide steps to catch up with him, the heels of my boots clicking and clocking on pavement washed with rain the night before.
Twelve hours before, he called me at three o’clock in the morning to tell me that something had happened at work that had left him completely discouraged. He was not sure how he would feel after some sleep, but he said he might not be up for sex. In fact, he might just want to be alone. He said he just wanted to call, to make sure that whatever happens tomorrow, that I know it wasn’t anything against me.
Half-asleep, I mumbled some kind of platitude. He sounded bad, and my sympathy couldn't help but kick in. I tried to remain positive, suggested I just give him a call when I approach his house at the time we had agreed upon. And then if he wasn’t up for it, I could just hang at the nearby mall until the time when I was supposed to meet with my girl friend. But the truth is, he sounded like shit, and by the time I hung up the phone, I had resigned myself to not seeing him. The disappointment sank in.
I posted my ‘fuck’ post, anticipatory hyperness deflated, freshly shaved pussy lips sighing. I went back to bed. I couldn’t get back to sleep. But I’m bad with interrupted sleep that way.
Come morning, my alarm clock went off and I never heard. I could not bring myself to rush when I did finally rouse myself. I could not do it, keep the hope, hurry myself down there and have it end up being for nothing. Nothing held against him, but I just could not seem to push myself with that risk there.
Seeing him must be a bonus, nothing more.
I shaved my legs anyways before I left to house. I like to do it as close to last second as I can, so they are as smooth, as cloudy heavenly, as close to just-been-depilated as my legs can be.
I made myself leave the house finally. I forgot my contact lenses at home, and decided to take the bus back round to get them. I ignored the voice niggling that I was going to feel pretty idiotic if I was wasting time that could have been spent with T.
I did not call like I said I would. I was running two hours late and I didn’t see the point of waking him up to tell him he could sleep because I wasn’t going to be there on time.
As it turns out, when I finally gave him a call: he had been awake, thinking I would call. He had left a message on my home phone. He was ok, was up for seeing me. I felt pretty idiotic.
(‘You did not believe enough’, a nah-nah-nah-boo-boo part of me whispers, even now. I tell her to go watch West Side Story again or something, leave me alone.)
So we ended up meeting up in the same mall where I first met him nine months ago. Our safe place. The buffer zone between the Internet and our private real lives. The public venue where even mass murderers, and girls who pick their noses when no one’s looking are given their final chance to reassure that they’re not so bad. Where we are asked to prove we are exactly who we type-said we are, more or less.
I found him under the same overhead sunlight of the glass-domed food court, replete with the same palm trees and what looks like the same real live sparrows flitting about.
He stepped off the escalator and we were face to face, and it had been so long, three months nearly since we’d met. I squinted. I knew it was him, just forgot that that’s how he looked.
No lover’s reunion this. I waved casually to his suddenly larger than life self from across the lunching crowd. He smiled and signalled towards the nearest pita place. He wanted to pick up his lunch. I nodded and walked where he was walking.
It’s the same place we had eaten at that first time too. I remember because I had spilled half my pita wrap contents out of the bottom, had made lame jokes about my lame attempts to cover up the escaped lettuce and olives with a napkin.
Hey, I said, sidling up to him by the counter, giving him a quick sideways squeeze with my arm.
Hey, he answered back, cooly warm.
Smiles and it’s been a whiles were exchanged.
He was fresh out of his haircut appointment. Which he would have cancelled, he said, if he had been sure I was coming. Gelled newly cut hair, still looked mousy sandy soft. Eyes, still blue.
I complimented his haircut. He grinned and thanked me. He asked me if I’ve changed my hair. I thought about it and said nope. We agreed that it really had been a while.
He always leaves me so quiet and subdued. He doesn’t leave me with much to hide behind. Feel nervous and new and like I have no one to be.
He always feels too like someone I don’t know. Someone who I used to know a long, long, long, time ago. The truth is what I’ve ever known of him is close to nothing at all. A few random blurts and glimpses now and then our only giveaways.
I’ve never been able to show him really, not even here. I wonder how he comes across. Does he come across at all?
He’s different. Not I am special, therefore he must be different. Not I am secretly in love, so I think he’s different. He is just really and truly a strange one, the kind we’ll all meet now and then. The kind it feels good to meet now and then, especially when you feel your life blending and fading into suffocating shades of normalcy.
But anyways, we left the mall, strange him and possibly strange I, to cut our way back to his house. Our time left was hacked down to an hour by then.
It is windy and my hair flaps around my face. I joke about his hair not going anywhere any time soon. Slow conversation about running a salon and whether men or women get the shorter end of the financial stick in the world of coiffure maintenance. He’s talking mostly. I’m laughing mostly because I feel like laughing.
We bump into his neighbour, then a student. I fade back, and give them non-commital, friendly ‘don’t mind me’ smiles. It’s funny to actually see him with people, even briefly. It’s weird to have them see me. He’s never really seen me talk to anyone but him either.
And we’re rushing, to get back to his house, and I’m trying to catch up, but my boots will only let me go so far before I fall flat on my face.
What is it about me and him and time? I don’t know.
Twelve hours before, he called me at three o’clock in the morning to tell me that something had happened at work that had left him completely discouraged. He was not sure how he would feel after some sleep, but he said he might not be up for sex. In fact, he might just want to be alone. He said he just wanted to call, to make sure that whatever happens tomorrow, that I know it wasn’t anything against me.
Half-asleep, I mumbled some kind of platitude. He sounded bad, and my sympathy couldn't help but kick in. I tried to remain positive, suggested I just give him a call when I approach his house at the time we had agreed upon. And then if he wasn’t up for it, I could just hang at the nearby mall until the time when I was supposed to meet with my girl friend. But the truth is, he sounded like shit, and by the time I hung up the phone, I had resigned myself to not seeing him. The disappointment sank in.
I posted my ‘fuck’ post, anticipatory hyperness deflated, freshly shaved pussy lips sighing. I went back to bed. I couldn’t get back to sleep. But I’m bad with interrupted sleep that way.
Come morning, my alarm clock went off and I never heard. I could not bring myself to rush when I did finally rouse myself. I could not do it, keep the hope, hurry myself down there and have it end up being for nothing. Nothing held against him, but I just could not seem to push myself with that risk there.
Seeing him must be a bonus, nothing more.
I shaved my legs anyways before I left to house. I like to do it as close to last second as I can, so they are as smooth, as cloudy heavenly, as close to just-been-depilated as my legs can be.
I made myself leave the house finally. I forgot my contact lenses at home, and decided to take the bus back round to get them. I ignored the voice niggling that I was going to feel pretty idiotic if I was wasting time that could have been spent with T.
I did not call like I said I would. I was running two hours late and I didn’t see the point of waking him up to tell him he could sleep because I wasn’t going to be there on time.
As it turns out, when I finally gave him a call: he had been awake, thinking I would call. He had left a message on my home phone. He was ok, was up for seeing me. I felt pretty idiotic.
(‘You did not believe enough’, a nah-nah-nah-boo-boo part of me whispers, even now. I tell her to go watch West Side Story again or something, leave me alone.)
So we ended up meeting up in the same mall where I first met him nine months ago. Our safe place. The buffer zone between the Internet and our private real lives. The public venue where even mass murderers, and girls who pick their noses when no one’s looking are given their final chance to reassure that they’re not so bad. Where we are asked to prove we are exactly who we type-said we are, more or less.
I found him under the same overhead sunlight of the glass-domed food court, replete with the same palm trees and what looks like the same real live sparrows flitting about.
He stepped off the escalator and we were face to face, and it had been so long, three months nearly since we’d met. I squinted. I knew it was him, just forgot that that’s how he looked.
No lover’s reunion this. I waved casually to his suddenly larger than life self from across the lunching crowd. He smiled and signalled towards the nearest pita place. He wanted to pick up his lunch. I nodded and walked where he was walking.
It’s the same place we had eaten at that first time too. I remember because I had spilled half my pita wrap contents out of the bottom, had made lame jokes about my lame attempts to cover up the escaped lettuce and olives with a napkin.
Hey, I said, sidling up to him by the counter, giving him a quick sideways squeeze with my arm.
Hey, he answered back, cooly warm.
Smiles and it’s been a whiles were exchanged.
He was fresh out of his haircut appointment. Which he would have cancelled, he said, if he had been sure I was coming. Gelled newly cut hair, still looked mousy sandy soft. Eyes, still blue.
I complimented his haircut. He grinned and thanked me. He asked me if I’ve changed my hair. I thought about it and said nope. We agreed that it really had been a while.
He always leaves me so quiet and subdued. He doesn’t leave me with much to hide behind. Feel nervous and new and like I have no one to be.
He always feels too like someone I don’t know. Someone who I used to know a long, long, long, time ago. The truth is what I’ve ever known of him is close to nothing at all. A few random blurts and glimpses now and then our only giveaways.
I’ve never been able to show him really, not even here. I wonder how he comes across. Does he come across at all?
He’s different. Not I am special, therefore he must be different. Not I am secretly in love, so I think he’s different. He is just really and truly a strange one, the kind we’ll all meet now and then. The kind it feels good to meet now and then, especially when you feel your life blending and fading into suffocating shades of normalcy.
But anyways, we left the mall, strange him and possibly strange I, to cut our way back to his house. Our time left was hacked down to an hour by then.
It is windy and my hair flaps around my face. I joke about his hair not going anywhere any time soon. Slow conversation about running a salon and whether men or women get the shorter end of the financial stick in the world of coiffure maintenance. He’s talking mostly. I’m laughing mostly because I feel like laughing.
We bump into his neighbour, then a student. I fade back, and give them non-commital, friendly ‘don’t mind me’ smiles. It’s funny to actually see him with people, even briefly. It’s weird to have them see me. He’s never really seen me talk to anyone but him either.
And we’re rushing, to get back to his house, and I’m trying to catch up, but my boots will only let me go so far before I fall flat on my face.
What is it about me and him and time? I don’t know.
Friday, March 10, 2006
Sunday, March 05, 2006
I can't reach him. My period's begun and the pain is worse than usual. I have no one to talk to about this because no one knows I have a blog. Deception breeds hurt all around I suppose.
I've been wanting to cry, haven't been able to. Now that I've started it's not coming out right. Not a proper cry at all.
What a long fucking day.
Guess I'll go watch the Oscars. Actually I don't particularly enjoy the Oscars.
I can't even go play piano. Reminds me of him. Bah. Now that is bad.
I have stuff to do but cant' focus. Kitchen's a mess.
I'll go watch a documentary on monkeys or something. Would do penguins but already watched that one.
What a useless post.
I've been wanting to cry, haven't been able to. Now that I've started it's not coming out right. Not a proper cry at all.
What a long fucking day.
Guess I'll go watch the Oscars. Actually I don't particularly enjoy the Oscars.
I can't even go play piano. Reminds me of him. Bah. Now that is bad.
I have stuff to do but cant' focus. Kitchen's a mess.
I'll go watch a documentary on monkeys or something. Would do penguins but already watched that one.
What a useless post.
what now?
I don’t know what to do. I’m so stunned.
Last night T happened upon my blog. I gave him the opportunity to do it, truth be told. I sent him the Fleshbot roundup link to my blog because he was curious to see it, ‘his name in lights’ as he called it. I trusted him not to read my blog, thought he just wanted to see it there between all the other blogs. Before I could tell him not to click on any of the links, he had already. He said he wanted to read the story, thought the bottom link was to my blog, the top title of the story just to the passage. That part, I don’t know, I still kind of believe.
Maybe you know what’s coming up.
As soon as I pointed out that the link to my story IS my blog, he stopped immediately. I was going to tell him that it was ok. To just finish reading and then x the window and forget it. I wasn’t comfortable with him being there with all my titles and post headings on the side, but I figured it was an honest mistake, no point of freaking out. I felt unpanicked, I did trust. But before I could say anything, he was telling me that it was definitely not cool for him to be there, that he would never want to intrude that way. He told me he deleted the link at once from his Internet history. I believed him. He’s always been so honest with me. And respected my privacy.
He asked me questions later that night. He said there were two things he would want to know if he were to look at my blog, so he preferred to ask me directly instead…one, was if he had ever hurt me in any way throughout, second, if I had really just had the one encounter with N.
I was a bit surprised at the pointedness of the questions, if you know what I mean. I tried to answer best I could. Told him no, he had never hurt me. I had been occasionally confused, overwhelmed, frustrated, but not hurt. I admitted there had been one brief sexual encounter with N beforehand, and that I had felt uncomfortable talking about it. I told him I felt bad that I let it happen the way it did, kind of springing it on T without any talk beforehand.
This morning, I logged into my ‘blog patrol’ site. My stats site basically. I was looking at my referrers and saw the Fleshbot roundup was there as a referral. I smiled, and thought, well, there’s T. Then I looked at my last 25 visitors. I noticed someone had logged in and looked at a whole bunch of posts on my blog. Seemed to have read them too because there were gaps of minutes in between. The person was on my site for a good hour. It was from T’s city. It was around the time when we were talking and when he happened on the blog. The entry time was the exact same time that the referral from Fleshbot was reported to have happened.. There was one more person who came upon my site during that 3 hour interval, but it was a company name, and not in Canada.
I even just looked up the IP now and it turned out to be in his area of the city. L I’m pretty sure it’s him.
I still want to believe. I’m staring at this goddam site praying the stats will just change. Praying there’s some other explanation. Praying I’m wrong. I don’t see how I can be. And believe me, I’m really trying to see.
I don’t know what to do. Well I do. I will have to give him a call soon or find him online and let him know what I found. I have to do it today, I will go crazy otherwise.
If he doesn’t admit to it, then what? Believe him? Always have that doubt in my mind? I’m still really really trying to think if there’s another explanation. Maybe the site just had a screw up. ? Is showing links that he didn’t click on? :( But the posts that showed up are the ones I can imagine him wanting to read kind of, from their titles And it would explain his questions more.
If he does admit to it, I don’t know either. I understand the temptation to look around I do. I understand even the impetus to lie about it out of shame. Still, I just.. I didn’t expect it of him. I feel like a fool. I don’t know. It’s deception, pure and simple. I mean he even told me last night that my privacy was sacred, that he would never go behind my back and try to find it and read. And more importantly than the cover-up afterwards, he betrayed a really direct request I made of him. To not read my blog.
And if he apologises, if he says he couldn’t help but look around, but that he really did delete after that hour, what do I do? Do I believe him? Do I trust him again?
I really just wish it never happened. And a sad part of me just wants to forgive and forget and move on because I don’t want to lose this. I liked this. I like him.
I want to pretend it never happened, it's almost tempting, he would never have to know I know. Just like I never had to know he looked. But how would I feel towards him if I carry on this charade?
I had such a great chat with him last night, came three times, discussed different aspects of our friendship and sex. He described a fuck that was so hot, I came so hard. Then hours later we started to talk again, this time about the threesome. When we came the second time, this time I was the one doing the talking. My first time. I was so excited to write about both events. I felt connected with him, like we understood each other, were going to continue to have fun together. I believed him.
I'm so upset. If it’s true, if he did do this, read my blog and lie about it, and like I said I can't figure out what else could be true, it hurts.
He hurt me.
Not confused or frustrated or overwhelmed this time.
Hurt.
(And who knows now what to do with this blog?)
Last night T happened upon my blog. I gave him the opportunity to do it, truth be told. I sent him the Fleshbot roundup link to my blog because he was curious to see it, ‘his name in lights’ as he called it. I trusted him not to read my blog, thought he just wanted to see it there between all the other blogs. Before I could tell him not to click on any of the links, he had already. He said he wanted to read the story, thought the bottom link was to my blog, the top title of the story just to the passage. That part, I don’t know, I still kind of believe.
Maybe you know what’s coming up.
As soon as I pointed out that the link to my story IS my blog, he stopped immediately. I was going to tell him that it was ok. To just finish reading and then x the window and forget it. I wasn’t comfortable with him being there with all my titles and post headings on the side, but I figured it was an honest mistake, no point of freaking out. I felt unpanicked, I did trust. But before I could say anything, he was telling me that it was definitely not cool for him to be there, that he would never want to intrude that way. He told me he deleted the link at once from his Internet history. I believed him. He’s always been so honest with me. And respected my privacy.
He asked me questions later that night. He said there were two things he would want to know if he were to look at my blog, so he preferred to ask me directly instead…one, was if he had ever hurt me in any way throughout, second, if I had really just had the one encounter with N.
I was a bit surprised at the pointedness of the questions, if you know what I mean. I tried to answer best I could. Told him no, he had never hurt me. I had been occasionally confused, overwhelmed, frustrated, but not hurt. I admitted there had been one brief sexual encounter with N beforehand, and that I had felt uncomfortable talking about it. I told him I felt bad that I let it happen the way it did, kind of springing it on T without any talk beforehand.
This morning, I logged into my ‘blog patrol’ site. My stats site basically. I was looking at my referrers and saw the Fleshbot roundup was there as a referral. I smiled, and thought, well, there’s T. Then I looked at my last 25 visitors. I noticed someone had logged in and looked at a whole bunch of posts on my blog. Seemed to have read them too because there were gaps of minutes in between. The person was on my site for a good hour. It was from T’s city. It was around the time when we were talking and when he happened on the blog. The entry time was the exact same time that the referral from Fleshbot was reported to have happened.. There was one more person who came upon my site during that 3 hour interval, but it was a company name, and not in Canada.
I even just looked up the IP now and it turned out to be in his area of the city. L I’m pretty sure it’s him.
I still want to believe. I’m staring at this goddam site praying the stats will just change. Praying there’s some other explanation. Praying I’m wrong. I don’t see how I can be. And believe me, I’m really trying to see.
I don’t know what to do. Well I do. I will have to give him a call soon or find him online and let him know what I found. I have to do it today, I will go crazy otherwise.
If he doesn’t admit to it, then what? Believe him? Always have that doubt in my mind? I’m still really really trying to think if there’s another explanation. Maybe the site just had a screw up. ? Is showing links that he didn’t click on? :( But the posts that showed up are the ones I can imagine him wanting to read kind of, from their titles And it would explain his questions more.
If he does admit to it, I don’t know either. I understand the temptation to look around I do. I understand even the impetus to lie about it out of shame. Still, I just.. I didn’t expect it of him. I feel like a fool. I don’t know. It’s deception, pure and simple. I mean he even told me last night that my privacy was sacred, that he would never go behind my back and try to find it and read. And more importantly than the cover-up afterwards, he betrayed a really direct request I made of him. To not read my blog.
And if he apologises, if he says he couldn’t help but look around, but that he really did delete after that hour, what do I do? Do I believe him? Do I trust him again?
I really just wish it never happened. And a sad part of me just wants to forgive and forget and move on because I don’t want to lose this. I liked this. I like him.
I want to pretend it never happened, it's almost tempting, he would never have to know I know. Just like I never had to know he looked. But how would I feel towards him if I carry on this charade?
I had such a great chat with him last night, came three times, discussed different aspects of our friendship and sex. He described a fuck that was so hot, I came so hard. Then hours later we started to talk again, this time about the threesome. When we came the second time, this time I was the one doing the talking. My first time. I was so excited to write about both events. I felt connected with him, like we understood each other, were going to continue to have fun together. I believed him.
I'm so upset. If it’s true, if he did do this, read my blog and lie about it, and like I said I can't figure out what else could be true, it hurts.
He hurt me.
Not confused or frustrated or overwhelmed this time.
Hurt.
(And who knows now what to do with this blog?)
Friday, March 03, 2006
...
Ever since I've got back from the holidays, it has become increasingly difficult to be honest in this journal.
HNT’s been fun because I like photography, and I like exhibition to some extent, although not as much as I used to. But I feel like it’s started to detract from what I’ve really wanted to say. It is a past-time, which is not wrong in it self. But as I’ve said before, many many times, I too often latch on to whatever comes my way, just so long as it passes the time. Especially when I’m having trouble valuing times past and present.
This is OK, is actually required sometimes, but I tell myself again and again, these distractions should never grab hold.
(Balance Learn, balance.. You can tightrope the ever-present edge of your sanity. Lean this way. Stagger the other. Maybe you like it like that. Take the way you’re talking to yourself right now for instance. Ahem. )
Much has been happening, and I feel like I’m always waiting for dust to settle. Documenting my life as it happens, before I can come up with satisfcatory rationalizations, can be difficult, and dangerous. I put thoughts down here, and it can make my inconsistencies and possible hypocrisies start to feel more and more blatant.
The thing is, all the months before this clearly pointed to where I would find myself right now. I am here, right in the chewy meat of what choosing a relationship like mine can imply. Everything else before this was just warm-up.
It's sticky and shaky in a different way than one can imagine. I wonder again which way I will blindly pat and navigate through.
What I'm having trouble with writing about is my phone call with T. I still feel a bit ashamed.
I don’t know if I can mull over the lusty details of it, when I have that uneasiness in the background. I thought I could make a ‘story’ of it… but I can’t.
Maybe if I spit it out as briefly as I can, put down some recriminations and justifications, then I can go back to it.
…
I don’t know.
…
When I called T, he told me he had met with the girl that night. That was why he was so eager to talk to me.
She had come to his house that very night. He said it became very obvious that she was not interested in the two of us, more just in him, in having sex with a stranger. Said he tried to bring me up several times but she wasn’t having any of it.
He said he didn’t ‘give’ her a whole lot, but did do a little something. I don’t know what that means. Well, I mean, I have an idea.
That’s not the hard part.
He said he didn’t fuck her, and wouldn’t want to. He said she wasn’t very inspiring.
He said he knew it was wrong a bit, and that he really didn’t make a habit of thinking of someone else during, but that also it was a bit of a part of the fantasy…
Because apparently he started to think of me. He said it made him really hot, that if I had been there right then, he would have just…fucked..me.
That’s not the hardest part. That’s coming up.
I was so turned on to hear this.
We continued to talk and by the end of the conversation, I came, hard and sobbing, without so much as a finger on myself, my first time ever.
…
There, I said it.
I don’t know. Well, I say I don’t know but I do.
I’m wary of attacking or justifying this because I’m not sure which side I want to win.
Deep-down I feel again that it is what it is, not wrong, not right, and I shouldn’t be afraid. But what if that deep-down feeling just doesn’t fall through?
….
Next post maybe.
HNT’s been fun because I like photography, and I like exhibition to some extent, although not as much as I used to. But I feel like it’s started to detract from what I’ve really wanted to say. It is a past-time, which is not wrong in it self. But as I’ve said before, many many times, I too often latch on to whatever comes my way, just so long as it passes the time. Especially when I’m having trouble valuing times past and present.
This is OK, is actually required sometimes, but I tell myself again and again, these distractions should never grab hold.
(Balance Learn, balance.. You can tightrope the ever-present edge of your sanity. Lean this way. Stagger the other. Maybe you like it like that. Take the way you’re talking to yourself right now for instance. Ahem. )
Much has been happening, and I feel like I’m always waiting for dust to settle. Documenting my life as it happens, before I can come up with satisfcatory rationalizations, can be difficult, and dangerous. I put thoughts down here, and it can make my inconsistencies and possible hypocrisies start to feel more and more blatant.
The thing is, all the months before this clearly pointed to where I would find myself right now. I am here, right in the chewy meat of what choosing a relationship like mine can imply. Everything else before this was just warm-up.
It's sticky and shaky in a different way than one can imagine. I wonder again which way I will blindly pat and navigate through.
What I'm having trouble with writing about is my phone call with T. I still feel a bit ashamed.
I don’t know if I can mull over the lusty details of it, when I have that uneasiness in the background. I thought I could make a ‘story’ of it… but I can’t.
Maybe if I spit it out as briefly as I can, put down some recriminations and justifications, then I can go back to it.
…
I don’t know.
…
When I called T, he told me he had met with the girl that night. That was why he was so eager to talk to me.
She had come to his house that very night. He said it became very obvious that she was not interested in the two of us, more just in him, in having sex with a stranger. Said he tried to bring me up several times but she wasn’t having any of it.
He said he didn’t ‘give’ her a whole lot, but did do a little something. I don’t know what that means. Well, I mean, I have an idea.
That’s not the hard part.
He said he didn’t fuck her, and wouldn’t want to. He said she wasn’t very inspiring.
He said he knew it was wrong a bit, and that he really didn’t make a habit of thinking of someone else during, but that also it was a bit of a part of the fantasy…
Because apparently he started to think of me. He said it made him really hot, that if I had been there right then, he would have just…fucked..me.
That’s not the hardest part. That’s coming up.
I was so turned on to hear this.
We continued to talk and by the end of the conversation, I came, hard and sobbing, without so much as a finger on myself, my first time ever.
…
There, I said it.
I don’t know. Well, I say I don’t know but I do.
I’m wary of attacking or justifying this because I’m not sure which side I want to win.
Deep-down I feel again that it is what it is, not wrong, not right, and I shouldn’t be afraid. But what if that deep-down feeling just doesn’t fall through?
….
Next post maybe.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
just
It must be that time of blog again… And I don't mean HNT. This will probably be my last one, loved it in some ways, that people stopped by to comment, but not good with schedules. Anyways, nothing halfway or subtle or mysterious about this photo. Much like what follows I suppose.
It just won’t do, this waiting.
Blank emotion when I come alone these days. Mornings mostly, in my bed. Burst into dry giggles and sobs. Still not release enough.
Will you find me close, finger me deep, wriggling in, you know, when the slippery stringy beading and threading of my insides begin? When I release onto your searching fingers, and you want me to tell you how much I’m enjoying, and I can’t, because I am, too much?
No, even that won't do, feel more than this, feel this like violence. Push comes to shove. Scratch, bite, fuck against you.
Backed up, trapped in my dreams, pinned. Pushing walls, reaching, kicking. Crawling. Always. Derelict. Deprived. Depraved. Crave. Always. Hit with every stretch. Blind. Wake up horny. Wake up just-do-me.
Your cock is there. In every dark stretch. Smell taste you. Toxic. Cunt. Needs. Splitting. Walls wet, part, plush, tight. By the dip and tip of the head of your cock. So heady. So giddy. Long. Heated. Firm. So needy. Can’t form. No sentences. Inside please. Don’t. Wait there. Don’t. Linger there. Inside now. I’ll coat. Skin please. Scalp please Be strong. Always. Be bare. White and squeeze and supple. Be your shoulders. Broad. Be your knees. Rock. Hold me down. Always. Hold my hand against my abdomen, naked. Can feel your fuck there too. When you pound hard. Beat. Beaten. Cunt…mound.. inside.. my… thighs…knees…calves…back…shoulders…spreads. Wildfire. Fingers alight. All over. Parched. Quick. Ignite. Brush. Fire. Slap and slip and sweep. Sweet. Know how you tingle, know how you burn, know how you build. Sweet. You focus, zone in and find. You take me over. Wake up horny. Wake up just-do-me.
Want to say all. Want to hear what you have to say. Always have, always do. Ask it in my ear. Say what you already know. Could tell anyone. Could have you tell anyone. Don’t care. Those you know, those you don’t. The cat is out. (Climb curtains. Claw. Screech. Pounce.) Carnal. Wildfire. Exposed. Come to light. Come inside. Just. Come. I am weary and hot and wanting. Wake up horny. Wake up just-do-me.
Feel this like a lump in my throat and chest. Petulant. Whiny, I know, I’m sorry. But I won’t repent.
Come to the chorus again. Can't refrain. Just repeat. Wake up, horny, just do me.
It just won’t do.
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